LJ Idol Week 8: First World Problem
The light from the setting sun dances on the water. The younger children run screaming and laughing in and out of the waves. I sit on the sand, idly tracing patterns in it with the tips of my fingers and watching my younger sister out in the water with the other children. We’ve been here for five days, but I haven’t gone into the water yet. It’s October. The water must be freezing. The younger children don’t seem to mind, though.
“What are you doing?”
I look up just in time to see him drop down onto the sand beside me. His family arrived the same day as mine, and we’ve talked at some point every day since then. Our families are staying in the same little hostel, about a half mile walk from the beach up a dirt path.
“Nothing.” I gather a handful of sand and lift it up to eye level, then watch it trickle through my fingers.
“We should go swimming.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Only for like the first fifteen seconds. Come on. You know you want to.”
“I do not!” But I am laughing.
He catches my hand and pulls me to my feet. We race across the sand, and I almost have to run to keep up with his long strides. I squeal as the first wavelet slaps my ankles. It's cold! He laughs and pulls me farther into the surf. We both know we're too old to be doing this. But we don't care. Out here, there's nothing but the waves and the joyous squeals of the younger children. We’re too far away from the rest of the world to hear anything else.
* * *
That night, the adults had gone out to sit on the porch to talk after making sure the younger children were upstairs in bed. We had been alone in the sitting room. I remember him sitting at the piano. I had moved to stand behind him, mesmerized by the music. I'd put my hand out, rested it on his shoulder. A beginning. It would be two years of letters and phone calls before that beginning turned into anything more.
But that night had been the beginning.
* * *
Now, standing here in the cold shadow of a high-rise, I wonder if we were ever really here at all. It has been so long since I've thought of it. Seeing this place, like this, makes it seem all the more unreal. It was so long ago. Part of me even wants to believe that it was another place, another beach. If I think about it that way, I can let myself imagine that our beach is still out there somewhere and I've just forgotten where it is.
But I know it isn't. Our beach is right here. Or it was. It's gone now. Just like him. Where there was once fluffy sand, now there is only hard, cold concrete. Lifeless concrete. The water isn't blue anymore. Children walk passively beside their parents along the waterfront. There is no more sand to play in, and no one would dare go swimming now.
I watch the people milling about on the boardwalk. A woman lines her three children up along the railing and then moves back a few yards to snap a picture of them. Two teenage boys skateboard by, calling back and forth to one another. They can’t be much older than we were then. But how much things have changed. These people don't know what used to be here. To them, this is all there's ever been.
I move from the cover of the high rise and walk slowly out across the concrete expanse toward the railing. I stand and look out over the water. The ocean has been tamed, fenced in by a rock wall maybe a mile out. It's quiet now. There's barely even a ripple. All I can hear are the cars rushing by on the road in front of the high-rises.
I wonder how long the little hostel stayed standing before it finally gave way to the tall, imposing high-rises. I wonder if it lasted as long as we did. Sixty-seven years.
I thought our place would be here forever.
I miss it.
And him.
“What are you doing?”
I look up just in time to see him drop down onto the sand beside me. His family arrived the same day as mine, and we’ve talked at some point every day since then. Our families are staying in the same little hostel, about a half mile walk from the beach up a dirt path.
“Nothing.” I gather a handful of sand and lift it up to eye level, then watch it trickle through my fingers.
“We should go swimming.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Only for like the first fifteen seconds. Come on. You know you want to.”
“I do not!” But I am laughing.
He catches my hand and pulls me to my feet. We race across the sand, and I almost have to run to keep up with his long strides. I squeal as the first wavelet slaps my ankles. It's cold! He laughs and pulls me farther into the surf. We both know we're too old to be doing this. But we don't care. Out here, there's nothing but the waves and the joyous squeals of the younger children. We’re too far away from the rest of the world to hear anything else.
* * *
That night, the adults had gone out to sit on the porch to talk after making sure the younger children were upstairs in bed. We had been alone in the sitting room. I remember him sitting at the piano. I had moved to stand behind him, mesmerized by the music. I'd put my hand out, rested it on his shoulder. A beginning. It would be two years of letters and phone calls before that beginning turned into anything more.
But that night had been the beginning.
* * *
Now, standing here in the cold shadow of a high-rise, I wonder if we were ever really here at all. It has been so long since I've thought of it. Seeing this place, like this, makes it seem all the more unreal. It was so long ago. Part of me even wants to believe that it was another place, another beach. If I think about it that way, I can let myself imagine that our beach is still out there somewhere and I've just forgotten where it is.
But I know it isn't. Our beach is right here. Or it was. It's gone now. Just like him. Where there was once fluffy sand, now there is only hard, cold concrete. Lifeless concrete. The water isn't blue anymore. Children walk passively beside their parents along the waterfront. There is no more sand to play in, and no one would dare go swimming now.
I watch the people milling about on the boardwalk. A woman lines her three children up along the railing and then moves back a few yards to snap a picture of them. Two teenage boys skateboard by, calling back and forth to one another. They can’t be much older than we were then. But how much things have changed. These people don't know what used to be here. To them, this is all there's ever been.
I move from the cover of the high rise and walk slowly out across the concrete expanse toward the railing. I stand and look out over the water. The ocean has been tamed, fenced in by a rock wall maybe a mile out. It's quiet now. There's barely even a ripple. All I can hear are the cars rushing by on the road in front of the high-rises.
I wonder how long the little hostel stayed standing before it finally gave way to the tall, imposing high-rises. I wonder if it lasted as long as we did. Sixty-seven years.
I thought our place would be here forever.
I miss it.
And him.